The Speechwriter Martin McKenzie-Murray (top fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

It’s a house, with stuff in it. Definitely a couch. Relaxed interior, suggesting MILF’s creative, independent but unpretentious spirit. There’s an oil painting of David Boon on the wall, and two old but comfortable couches. A copy of Wisden lies open on one.

MILF

You look thirsty. Can I get you a Gatorade?

DONG BRADMAN

Sounds nice. Interesting painting. It seems paradoxically poised — simultaneously declaring reverence and irreverence.

MILF

Let me see what I’ve got in the fridge. Make yourself comfortable. That’s very perceptive. Our appreciation of Boonie is usually warm but ironic, but I think there’s some solid virtues to respect in the man too.

DONG BRADMAN

Don’t mind if I do. Oh, such as?

Then Cam the Intern invited me up to the roof to smoke a joint. I accepted his invitation, but declined the cabbage, and as we sat against a large exhaust vent —which was busy releasing the souls of a thousand crustaceans — he told me he’d just finished his doctoral thesis on the efficacy of micro-loans in Tunisia, but now did little except tutor John in Excel and online dating.

‘He has no discernible skill,’ Cam said, expelling a pungent cloud of smoke. ‘And yet he’s reached the executive level. His existence is like an unsolvable Babylonian riddle.’

When I returned to my desk, John yelled for me to join him in his office. I was frightened that he’d discovered my script-editing, or the fact I had nothing else to do.

‘I have your mission,’ John says.

‘I’m sorry?’ I say.

‘I have your mission.’

‘Am I in trouble?’

‘Why would you be in trouble?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. You have a mission for me?’

‘Yes. You are to return in time and kill Hitler.’

‘What?’

‘I’m putting you in a time machine, Toby.’

‘To kill Hitler?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Ok. How old is he?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘He’s an infant.’

‘Then I can’t do it.’

Stretched over John’s shirt, gut, and tie was a woollen jumper, marred by Cosby-patterns and spilt custard. His corner office — ‘the Fishbowl’ — was exposed to the rest of the floor by glass. I couldn’t decide if its banality was confirmed or relieved by the plastic fern and framed Ron Barassi poster.

‘You refuse?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re refusing an order?’

‘I’m refusing. One, there’s probably no universe in which you would possess that kind of authority. Two, he’s not Hitler yet.’

‘But he’s always Hitler. He’s never not Hitler.’

‘He’s a baby. He’s got loose bowels and a rattle. He’s not yet the masturbating goon, the mad butcher, a horseman of the apocalypse.’

‘That’s the fucking point, mate. You’d stop him from becoming—’

‘Here’s what I think will happen: Mr. and Mrs. Hitler, roused from their game of bridge, find some guy with a Country Road sweater and commando knife bent over their son’s cot, blood everywhere, and sweet Adolf’s neck slashed like arts funding.’

John is considering this. I go on. ‘They scream — I’ll never forget the noise — and then I turn to them and say: “Hey, this will sound really weird,” and I explain the cosmic obscenities their son will commit, but this doesn’t quell their horror because, for a start, mate, they don’t speak English. Second, I’ve returned to a place where time travel doesn’t exist yet, so even if they could understand me, my rationale is just hot gibberish. Third, none of this changes the fact that I’ve just butchered a child before its adoring parents. They aren’t suddenly overcome with relief, mate. “Oh, danke, Mr. Time-Travelling Assassin, come play bridge with us — the maid will mop up.”’

John is deep in thought. He leans back in his chair and examines my clothes. ‘Wouldn’t your skinny jeans tip them off about your time travelling?’

‘Doubtful.’

‘Your fashion would stand out, I think. Kind of distinctive.’

‘I think my fashion would be a triviality, John, because I’ve just butchered their fucking baby.’

‘I mean, did denim even exist then?’

‘I think you’re missing the point here.’

‘It’s an alien fabric to them.’

‘Fine.’

‘Cut in an alien style.’

‘Sure.’

‘I mean, skinny jeans are a mystery to me, and I live in this century.’

‘My jeans, John, aren’t being read by Hitler’s parents as proof of my time travel. Okay?’

‘Fine. Fuck it. What about Phil Spector?’

I had not moved to Canberra for this.*

[* This idea of time-travelling assassination piqued Garry’s interest, and after some thought he nominated the ‘dingo cunt’ that killed Azaria Chamberlain as his quarry. Politely, I expressed surprise that Garry had used this extraordinary power so narrowly. This unravelled things quickly. Garry accused me of trying to stop him from killing the dingo, and I argued that I couldn’t possibly stop him because it was just a thought experiment. Which only angered him more. Effectively, he accused me of being indifferent to Lindy’s multiple victimisations and of trying to police his emotions, at which point he held my head in the toilet while repeatedly flushing it.]

A requirement for my job was submitting to security vetting. For some reason, I required a ‘Top Secret’ clearance. The guiding logic of this process is not to determine your moral laxity, but to establish whether you are sufficiently embarrassed by your mottled humanity that you have become vulnerable to blackmail. Friends who had been through this explained that confession of drug use and niche pornography was the smart move. It wasn’t about what you had done, they said, but about what you wanted to hide. I wondered if they knew about Bessie and, if so, if that was significant.

Before leaving for the capital, I completed the vetting documents with qualified candour, and posted them back. Once in Canberra, the security team arranged an interview with me. Jason, an ex-bouncer, ushered me into a stark room with fluorescent lighting. He resembled a boab tree, and wore a shirt at least three sizes too small. I wondered if the threat of its buttons bursting explosively from the strain of his pecs, and hurtling catastrophically into my corneas, was intentional.

In the middle of the room were a grey desk and two opposing chairs. Jason gestured to mine. It was the chair that, once occupied, forced my back to the door. Like his